Death Dealer: Second Chance
by Lordban
Summary: Put this journal down immediately if you know what's good for you! ... Don't fret, I was just joking. If you read this I'm dead at last. Two world-shattering crises are enough for one person, even when she's Lyzara Dawnstain.


'v'

**Death Dealer: Second Chance**

'v'

* * *

><p>'v'<p>

The first thing I remember after the spell is the low rumble of a Nord: 'You're finally awake. Couldn't have picked a better spot to fall asleep' he says with a hint of amusement on his somber face.

He has a point. I can't believe I was sleeping either – or that I'm now hearing or breathing, for that matter. I thought my screw-up would have permanent consequences. Well, it did… in a way…

The man who just talked has his hands tied behind his back. I realize mine are, as well, and that I'm wearing a prisoner outfit most unsuited for the environment we're traversing. I know those landscapes, and I know this cold breeze. This is Skyrim. I have no idea how I ended up in that corner of the Empire, but there I am.

My puzzlement must be visible – something had to prompt the Nord into explaining my situation:

'They picked you up at the same placed they ambushed us. Don't know why you were sleeping outside, but you'll never have to worry about finding a roof again.'

Meaning I'll die before the end of the day. Charming.

Figures, though. I'm sitting in an open cart with my hands bound behind my back, in the company of three other people who share the same predicament. All three are Nords, as seem to be the four men sitting in the cart right before mine. A solid escort of what must be Imperial legionnaires is taking us to a village I can make out in the valley below us. I'll be there in a couple minutes, provided they don't break a wheel on the rocky and uneven path.

At least I will be unless I do something about it. I mutter the words to conjure a Bound Dagger – I need my hands free for the kind of magic I'll have to perform next.

Nothing happens.

Damn it!

No magicka flowing through me – or rather, the feeling I'm not up to conjuring that kind of magicka.

I begin to panic. I never learnt the tricks to slip out of bonds, as I never needed them or expected to need them.

I'm so screwed.

Of course, that's the moment the Nord who addressed me choses to jab a 'We're all brothers and sisters in binds, now' – he's been trading words with another of my companions of misfortune. The third might have joined, but he's been gagged very efficiently. He must hardly be capable of grunting.

I hold back a silent laugh at the irony of my situation. I've worked so hard for so many years, spent countless hours researching a way to cheat death, and what's the result of my experimentations? I wake up on the way to the block, the stake or whatever means of execution waiting for me, with only a few minutes ahead for some last regrets. Maybe the Nine have decided to shove my failure in my face. Or maybe it was Sithis. It doesn't really matter, or at least it won't in a few minutes.

End of the line.

Thirty seconds ago I was so certain I had time to find out what I did wrong…

Well, there's no use crying over spilled mead. Might as well dwell on the good memories and the things that matter. Die standing, maybe even die smiling. I sure as hell won't manage the last one, but I'm not going to embarrass myself in front of whoever watches my execution. I'm where I am as a result of my actions first and foremost even if I don't actually know how I landed in my present position.

The Nord who stirred me awake seems the kind of honorable warrior you meet in every tavern story. I don't really mind him at this point, though. He's accepting his fate much better than his interlocutor, and dealing with it in a sensible way. We're going to die no matter what. This other guy, though… He's having trouble accepting he deserved it somehow. Petty thief, from the looks of it – and horse-thief from the smell. I doubt he's even in the Guild – I'd have him kicked out if he was an actual member, and if we weren't both on our way to a rendezvous with the headsman. Correction: I'd have him kicked out. He'd be way beneath me and wouldn't even know for sure that I actually exist.

Doesn't even know to keep his mouth shut. 'What's with him?' he asks, nodding in the direction of our gagged companion. Duh, someone shoved a filthy rag in his mouth, any other stupid questions?

'You watch your mouth' the other man says sternly. 'You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak – the true High King of Skyrim.'

I blink. How long exactly has it been since someone challenged the High King? I haven't been following the affairs of the Empire day-by-day for quite a while, but it's not like I shouldn't have heard about such a big claim from one of my informants. I make a point of keeping an eye on any high-profile character and I don't even know the man's name!

Fortunately I have two talkative people to provide me the explanation: 'Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm?' the horse-thief says.

The name I know for the Jarl of Windhelm is Thorvald Blodehelm.

'What's the date?' I ask as casually as I can manage to.

'Morndas' the Nord warrior replies. 'Have you really been sleeping that long?'

'It wouldn't have been the first time I slept through a whole day' I say. ''sides it's not like you keep a precise track of time when you live in the wild.'

'We're on the 17th of Last Seed' the horse-thief provides. 'Does it matter?'

Rats.

'When you reach my age, it does' I say, hiding my annoyance.

I regret those words instantly. The horse-thief gives me an incredulous look, where the warrior lets a hearty boom of laughter. 'That was a good one, lass!' he says genially. One of the guards tries to shout him down as I mull over what I've just been called: "Lass". Come to think of it, I'm freezing but not aching like I should be. My old joints aren't supposed to stand a cold, humid breeze and keep silent – they ought to be on fire by now. They aren't.

That's when I realize I'm sitting straight as opposed to hunched like I was. Oh, by the Nine, I didn't fail completely. There's a simple explanation for everything including my current inability to conjure a dagger: I've landed in a youthful body that isn't my own and attuned to magicka differently, hence my pitiful failure. That's about the cruelest punishment Fate could have inflicted on me: I succeeded in cheating death… only to be killed minutes later.

Way to go, Lyzara! You've really outdone yourself!

Can't help it – I laugh too, a bitter, mirthless laugh. The horse-thief looks at me like he thinks I'm crazy – he's close. What's happened to me is a little big to accept, even for a woman who once stood her ground before a Daedra Prince.

I sigh. Well, that exciting part of my life has long since been over. No use thinking about a glorious past now. I'd much rather enjoy the scenery while I can. I've had a longer life than most, but I've never stopped enjoying travelling across Tamriel, even after walking became an ordeal of its own. There are so many places to see, so much beauty in nature. Cruelty, too, as evidence by the covey of foxes down in the bushes, merrily feasting on whatever prey they caught and making a mess of it. They're spurting blood everywhere.

Can't really blame them; I'm about to do the same.

The road takes a sharp dip down. I can make out a gate below. 'Helgen' the warrior supplies. I've been there once, many years ago.

'Far from home' I reply.

The warrior smiles. 'You think like a Nord.'

The convoy enters Helgen.

'Look, that's General Tullius' the man continues. 'With his Thalmor puppet masters. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this.'

I blink again. The Thalmor, giving orders to an Imperial General? I know they did a good job of carving a Dominion for themselves, but they don't have their way in the Empire in the Tamriel I know. Just _when_ am I?

I smile bitterly and shrug. In the end it doesn't matter: knowing the date won't save me.

The warrior sitting in front of me reminisces. 'I used to be sweet on a girl here… I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.'

Another reason to think I've lost time. I've been to Helgen a quarter of a century ago, as far as memory serves, and remember the mead, and the name of the brewer. He didn't have a son or a friend named Vilod, as far as I remember.

We're very close now – we round a corner and I can see the block.

The horse-thief begins rattling the list of divines. He sounds so scared I'm surprised he has yet to soil his clothes.

A father and his child stand at the corner. 'You need to go inside' the father says.

Silly man, he's wasting such a good chance to show his son what the real world is like.

The cart stops. I've reached the end of my final journey. The eight of us – four in each cart – get down for the final roll call. I wonder if they wrote a name down on their list for me – I probably don't look the way Lyzara Dawnstain should.

I barely register the horse-thief's attempt to run for it. Maybe because it was over in four seconds, he got shot by an archer. Nice one. Coward's death is going to be painful considering where the arrow pierced him – fortunately he won't scream, he can hardly gurgle the way he's stuck now.

The guy in charge of the list of dead men walking asks me to come forward and speak my name – I oblige. I even tell him my real name. He looks at me with surprise, but not for the reason I expected. He doesn't seem to give a damn about who I said I was, he just remarks I'm not on the list – and gets shut up by his bitch of a Captain. "Behead first, ask questions later" seems to be her policy.

I shoot a sarcastic look back at the list-bearer as he apologizes to me. Seriously, does he think saying "Sorry" or knowing her bones will be repatriated matters for a person who can count the number of minutes she has left to live on her fingers?

Oh, wait, I forgot, that apology was meant to comfort him, not me.

I do have enough time to wonder why a man who obviously can read and write doesn't recognize my name. Has it really been this long? I know I retired from worldly affairs early as far as the public is concerned, but after the part I took in the Dagon Crisis, Uriel Septim's succession and the scandal which surrounded my journal's release, any man with a veneer of culture should have at least heard about me.

Or maybe they shouldn't.

I've absently caught the words of the last blessing we were supposed to be given – it's been interrupted fairly early by an overeager Nord who stepped to the block before he was called. I've heard enough to notice something else is off: we were being blessed in the name of the _Eight_ Divines. I definitely would know if one of them had ceased to be worshipped.

There's a weird roaring sound coming from a distance.

Those people around me are busy fretting about hearing it "again". I'll admit I didn't pay attention, but hey, I'm about to get my head lopped off. I have a right to be distracted – or I would have if I wasn't being shoved to take the place of the overeager soldier who just got shortened – they didn't even clean up after him, his head's still in the basket and the block slippery with his blood. The stink from the dead man's emptied bowels offends a much sharper sense of smell than that of my old self.

Captain Bitch seems in a rush to get my execution done with: she orders me shoved to the block.

Well, this is it. Thrust on my knees, then head pushed down on wet, blood-soaked stone, tender neck exposed.

The headsman raises his axe.

I'm not closing my eyes. Not giving them the pleasure. Even my fifteen-year-old self would have "stood" proudly, back when I was waiting for death in Uriel Septim VII's jail. I remember the will I wrote for the Imperial lawmen back then – I was quite the spirited girl. Spiteful, too, but that hasn't changed all that much.

I look at the blade about to end my life with odd detachment and can't help but think the man who wields it is an idiot for not cleaning up the piece of flesh still sticking to the bloody edge. How unprofessional.

Something odd catches my eye at this point. I know it's the last thing I'll see and that I won't have time to think about what it means, but still…

There's some kind of huge, flying reptile which landed atop the tower behind us. A dragon, if you'll believe.

I smile in spite of everything.

Maybe Martin's come to get me.

Snowball chance in Dagon's plane, I know, but a woman can dream when she's about to die…

'v'

* * *

><p>'v'<p>

**A/N :** First things first: I own none of the material written above.

This story is a sequel to "Death Dealer", an Oblivion fiction posted at Bethesda's and at the Rangers' Guild forums in 2006-'09, which I'll get around to reposting when I've found my old files. Both stories feature the same character: when I watched that introduction for the first time I couldn't help but think how my old character might have reacted. I've hinted at how I inserted a human who was active two centuries earlier in this introduction and may expand a bit on it later, but this doesn't get a high priority.

Lyzara wasn't a nice girl, as you may have noticed, and now she has many more years as a murderer under her belt, so a fair warning: she may very well engage in horrible deeds later on.

This will be updated a lot faster than my Code Geass fic, Lyzara flows kind of naturally now :) I hope you'll enjoy the ride. Don't hesitate to say if you do - or don't ;)


End file.
